I Thought You Might Call
by taylorpotato
Summary: Jim gives Sherlock his number when they first meet. He finds Sherlock's number on The Science of Deduction. Naughty phone calls are obviously the next logical step. Explicit.
1. Chapter 1

_**Fair warning: Explicit. Phone sex. Masturbation. Mentions of heavy BDSM. Knife play, breath play and other shenanigans. Jim and Sherlock get off talking about really perverse things. What else is**_** new.**

"I gave you my number, I thought you might call…"

Jim's words echoed through Sherlock's head every so often. He still had the number. He'd stuck it in his jacket pocket absently the day he'd met "Jim from IT" and he'd neglected to throw it out.

He didn't exactly put effort into memorizing it. But he'd glanced at it more than once. Which meant it got stored somewhere up in his brain. In some obscure, out of the way file.

He didn't bother to delete it.

Not with so many other things going on. Besides, it's useful to know as much about one's enemies as possible.

Or at least, those were the excuses Sherlock gave himself.

When he got the first text, he didn't think much of it.

**Don't you ever wonder what it would be like? - JM**

Needlessly obscure. Formulated to make Sherlock question what he meant. He ignored the text but did not delete it.

He solved crimes.

He ate Chinese food with John at two in the morning.

Life felt busy. Life felt good.

**I'll never believe you're actually a virgin - JM**

The second text seemed slightly disjointed. But combined with the first it began to form a sort of narrative. A rather obvious one.

Somebody like Jim Moriarty didn't make a first impression that was accidental in any way.

He'd chosen gay.

Desperate.

Infatuated.

He wanted to play games. Wanted to dance. Wanted to tear Sherlock apart into little tiny pieces.

But perhaps in more ways than the detective could have anticipated.

**Don't you miss the adrenaline of it? The sheer rush of endorphins - JM**

The texts came days and weeks apart. Sherlock never responded. But he stared at them sometimes.

When John went out with Sarah.

When there wasn't an interesting case on.

When the boredom roared loudly at the forefront of Sherlock's brain and grated on his nerves almost unbearably.

It went on for a month or two before Sherlock got the first phone call.

* * *

It came at approximately midnight. John already asleep. Sherlock lying in his bed, thinking about nothing in particular. Marinating in the muffled white noise his brain issued when he didn't keep it appropriately occupied.

The vibration of his phone echoed on the bedside table.

He glanced at the number.

Really, it was a split second decision. The kind of thing you should think twice about. But you don't.

"Hello?" He asked dryly, feeling more than a bit self-conscious.

"Ah," the sound of Jim's voice curled like a smirk, "so you have been getting my texts. Really, Sherlock. Didn't Mummy ever tell you not to put your mobile number on the Internet where any random hooligan could get a hold of it?"

"Does this conversation have a point?" Sherlock shifted on his bed. The mattress springs creaked slightly. He stiffened, wondering if Jim had heard the noise.

"Of course it has a point," the other man snorted. "You're supposed to be a genius. Figure it out."

"You want to have sex," Sherlock said dully. "Boring."

"Would it be, though?"

Sherlock paused. To wonder for a few moments. Because certainly, sex with ordinary people had lacked any sort of inspiration whatsoever. The same repetitive motion. Chasing after friction and orgasm. Not interesting. Exceedingly pedestrian.

But perhaps…

"In all likelihood, yes," Sherlock replied in the same sarcastic monotone.

"Don't play hard to get, you aren't good at it," Jim let out a small, satisfied sigh. "You're in bed. I bet you sleep naked."

"What does that matter?"

"I dunno. Do you habitually touch yourself while still wearing clothes?" The last word had a mocking upper inflection.

"I don't habitually touch myself."

"Too caught up in that big old brain of yours, I take it… well, go on. Have a bit of fun. Play with it."

"Why?"

"Because I said so, and if you weren't at least curious you wouldn't have answered the phone."

Sherlock ran his tongue across his lower lip almost unconsciously. He wasn't quite fully aroused. But something in the quality of Jim's voice. The low, easy playfulness. The casually issued order. It wasn't entirely boring.

His cock stirred half-heartedly.

Sherlock squirmed on the sheets. He did sleep naked. Not that it mattered. He trailed a hand down his abdomen, flirting with the idea for a bit longer before he actually wrapped a hand around his prick and gave it a slow stroke.

"I'd back you up against a wall," Jim said simply. "And then I'd slide down to my knees. Open my mouth and take a nice long lick. Because in the beginning, it's all about wanting new information. Chasing new sensations. I'd let your prick slide into my mouth, easy slow. I don't have a gag reflex. But I'd grab onto your hips to keep you from fucking my throat. Because I'd want to savor it."

It wasn't exactly the most unique dirty talk that Sherlock had ever played audience for. But it wasn't entirely dull. At least, his cock filled out a bit more. A spark of pleasure skittered through him as he gave himself another slow stroke.

"I'd let the drool start to run down my chin until I got you nice and sloppy. Just think of the obscene noises. Echoing through your empty flat. Your legs might start to quiver just a little bit. I'd swallow you down completely. I'd take your entire prick into my mouth, and you'd just about die because of it."

Sherlock focused his motions around the head of his cock, sliding and squeezing, luxuriating in the slow build. And the smoothness of Jim's words. The dips and peaks of his Irish lit. He did have a nice voice for saying incredibly filthy things.

"I wouldn't let you come," Jim's breath hitched. Sherlock could hear a rustling. Then the sound of a zip being pulled down. Then Jim seemed to settle back in. "At least, not right then. I'd stand back up, and wait for you to drag me to John's bedroom."

"John's?"

"Of course," Jim chuckled. "I'd let you throw me down on his mattress. Suck a bruise onto the side of my neck. Would you like leaving marks on me?"

Sherlock thought about it for a moment.

"Yes," he replied in a tone a lot huskier than he first intended.

"I bet your doctor keeps lubricant in his drawer. Just like he probably keeps condoms there. But we wouldn't need those. I'd want you to fuck me raw."

Sherlock stilled his fist and began to thrust up into it slowly. Jim stayed silent. Perhaps waiting.

"I wouldn't prepare you very well," Sherlock let the words drip out slow and even. "I'd want you to feel me stretching you. I'd want it to hurt. Just two fingers. That's all you'd get before I climbed on top of you. I'd have you on your back. Legs bent, resting on my shoulders. I'd pin your hands above your head and sink into you slowly, but all at once."

Jim let out a soft little sound. Almost a moan. Sherlock listened intently. He could hear faint, slick sound of flesh sliding against flesh. Jim was definitely touching himself.

This fact sent an odd lurch of heat through Sherlock's body.

He fucked his own fist with just a little bit more intention.

"Do you have any lubricant near you?" Sherlock asked off-handedly.

Jim waited about thirty seconds before replying, "yes."

"Finger yourself."

Silence. Then sounds of motion. More rustling. Shifting, then a low groan.

"Once you were inside me, I'd bite you," Jim grunted. "I'd bite you hard enough to draw blood. Right on the side of your neck. High, where everybody could see it. Despite those stupid scarves you always wear."

"I'd choke you," the words tumbled out of Sherlock's mouth before he could stop himself. "I'd wrap a hand around your neck and squeeze until you couldn't breathe. No matter how you thrashed and squirmed, I wouldn't let go until you almost fainted."

"Fuck," Jim groaned. "I'd leave claw marks all over your back. They'd last for days."

"If you started that up, I'd pull out and flip you over. I'd fuck you on your hands and knees like the little bitch that you are."

"Oh I'd love to see you try," Jim groaned. "I have two fingers inside myself."

"Add another."

Sherlock tightened his grip and stroked his cock a bit faster.

"Are you close?" Jim asked, in a strange, rather broken voice.

"Getting there. I want to listen to you come."

Jim began to pant. Let out a few short whines. Then a long groan. The sounds fed the already burning fire in Sherlock's core. The building tension crescendoed. Then it released.

Sherlock shuddered and gasped, half in shock, half in pleasure as he came all over his own stomach.

He couldn't even remember the last time he'd masturbated to completion. He usually got distracted halfway through or gave up.

"Well that was certainly interesting," Jim chuckled, voice back to normal. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

"Good night." He replied reflexively.

The line went dead before he could say anything else.

* * *

Days passed. No texts. Sherlock didn't want to call. He could be incredibly patient when the circumstances called for it.

But when the three-week mark went by without anything happening, he became more than a little frustrated.

He knew Jim was playing a game.

Perhaps some level of participation was required.

**I'd hold a knife to your throat - SH**

He sent the text, not quite knowing what to expect.

But later that night, as he sat up on the sofa, reading email, his phone buzzed again.

Not once for a text.

No.

Repeatedly.

Phone call.

He didn't have to look at the number to know. He answered on the seventh ring. Right before it would have gone to voicemail.

"What kind of knife?" Jim asked without any preamble.

"I have a very nice hunting blade with an ivory handle. I keep it razor sharp. I'd hold it against your neck, with enough pressure to sting. Enough pressure to scratch you. Make you bleed just a little bit."

"While you fucked me?"

"Yes. Sprawled out across my kitchen table. It's just about at my hip level. Perhaps I'd tie your wrists to the table legs to keep you from squirming around too much."

"Would you cut me?"

"I'd drag the knife down your side. Make an incision right below your ribcage. I'd make you lick your own blood off the blade after we finished."

Sherlock's cock began to harden in his trousers.

John had gone out. Hadn't said when he'd be back.

Sherlock set his laptop aside and unzipped his trousers.

"Mmm… I do like knives. Once you untied me, perhaps I'd wrestle the blade away from you and carve my initials into your thigh. Messy, so it would scar," Jim hummed.

"You couldn't overpower me physically," Sherlock groaned as he wrapped a hand around his prick. "And I'd have to punish you for even trying."

"What would you do?"

"I'd whip you with my belt. The buckle would leave all sorts of wonderful welts on your skin."

"Oh," Jim breathed. "Bit of a sadist, are we?"

"Where you're concerned."

"Hmm, the feeling is mutual. I'm having a grand old time planning your death. It's going to be my magnum opus, Sherlock."

Those words shouldn't have sent a sick sort of arousal twisting through Sherlock's bloodstream. But god, they did.

"Will it be clever?" He breathed as he began to slide his hand down his cock.

"You'll never see it coming."

"It would never work otherwise."

"It'll be like poetry. It will all be wonderfully simple and enormously complicated. We'll go down in history for it, I assure you."

"We?"

"Of course… after you whipped me with you belt, what then?"

"I think I'd tie you to a chair until I got hard again. Then perhaps I'd heat a spoon on the stove and burn you with it."

"Fuck," Jim groaned.

"Yes. I think I'd like to fuck you across the floor. So your back would hurt in the morning. So you couldn't take a step, or even breathe without remembering what I did to you."

Jim began to pant again.

"Stop," Sherlock barked.

"Dear me, Sherly…" Jim said in a breathless voice. "I never thought you be so dominant… though I can't say I didn't dare to hope."

"Shut up, slut. Pinch your left nipple until it hurts too much to stand."

From the silence and then eventual groan, Sherlock could reasonably assume Jim had followed the order.

"Good. Now start touching yourself again. Don't come until I say you can."

Sherlock began to fuck his fist again. It felt wonderfully filthy. Right there, in the middle of the living room. Writhing on the couch. Talking to somebody he certainly shouldn't be talking to…

"I'm close," Jim whined. "May I come, Sir?"

Sir.

Fuck.

Sherlock's orgasm crested suddenly. Wonderfully. The pleasure crashed over him like a tidal wave. He barely managed to grit out a, "yes."

Jim's moan echoed Sherlock's.

Neither man hung up right away.

They sat there in near silence.

For a moment, a bizarre longing welled in Sherlock's chest. Perhaps the rush of endorphins and dopamine had dulled his brain. Perhaps it was an instinctual impulse—the desire to clutch a warm body right after orgasm. To find comfort, and warmth in another person's flesh.

Of course he couldn't.

Because Moriarty actually wanted to kill him. He was a dangerous psychopath. It was one thing to fuck him over the phone. If it happened in real time, he doubted either of them would survive.

"You're over-thinking this, aren't you?" Jim asked lazily. He sounded almost drowsy.

"Probably."

"Stop it. Go to bed, like a normal person."

"I suppose I will."

The silence drew out again before Jim eventually rang off.

* * *

Two days later Sherlock got another text.

**I'll be travelling. Different time zone. But perhaps I can call when it would be late there - JM**

Sherlock just smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Fair Warning:**_**_ Phone sex/video chat sex. Involves elements of BDSM, such as breath play_**

XxXxX

**Does your laptop have a webcam? - JM**

On the surface level, it was an innocuous question. But very specific. Designed to imply a lot of things. Designed to fill Sherlock's head with strange fantasies so he could barely focus on the slide of decayed poppy seeds he'd been studying through a microscope.

**No. But John's does - SH**

He didn't have to wait long for a reply. Sometimes he pictured what Jim might be doing. Was he in a business meeting? Driving about London? Threatening somebody with a gun? Or did he just sit about his flat like a normal person and watch telly?

Sherlock preferred to picture Jim with the gun. He liked to think about wrestling it out of Jim's hand, shoving him down onto his knees, and forcing him to suck it.

**How naughty. Tomorrow, then. At around 18:00 - JM**

Sherlock paused to think. To parse the idea that Jim had memorized John's schedule, and knew that the doctor usually worked late on Thursdays. If they started at 18:00 they'd have at least two hours before John got home.

There was that phrase—about keeping one's enemies close. But Sherlock doubted the wisdom of such a statement extended to this level of intimacy. To having phone sex with your enemies at least once a week.

And if they added video to the mix, if he could see all of Jim's pale, tender flesh spread out before him…

He shouldn't.

If Mycroft knew, god, he'd go red enough to blow a few blood vessels. He'd shout and carry on about Sherlock's horrible fascination with self-destruction.

If John knew—well—he probably wouldn't know what to think. He'd be disappointed. Scared. Worried, in that over-protective mother hen way of his.

Somehow, the sheer wrongness of it just made Sherlock's cock twitch in his trousers. It was like drugs. Like buying cocaine. The anticipation before consumption. Who did it really hurt if he bought it but never used it? What if he could draw out the anticipation of Jim Moriarty indefinitely?

**Wear a tie and nothing else- SH**

XxXxX

Sherlock sat at his desk, with the door closed. He had on his blue dressing gown and a black pair of briefs. He had John's laptop open. The little green light at the top of it shone next to the built-in camera.

Usually he didn't get nervous about this sort of thing.

In sexual situations, he rarely lost control. Rarely felt vulnerable. He took what he wanted in the way most enjoyable to the other involved party. That was it. Cold, clinical, mutually beneficial.

But with Jim—things became unpredictable. Thrilling. Terrifying.

It made his heart race in a strange way. His stomach twisted. He kept glancing towards the clock.

18:03 became 18:04.

Then the Skype window popped up. Sherlock hit the green button to answer it before he could second-guess himself.

The screen filled up with a video feed.

It looked like Jim was in a hotel room, sitting at a desk as well. Sherlock could see the bed behind him—not slept in. He had the curtains closed, the table lamp on. It looked like a moderately expensive establishment—walls painted a warm burgundy, no chintzy wallpaper. Probably in London, but perhaps somewhere a bit further into the country.

Jim had a black tie around his neck, and no other clothes that Sherlock could see. The other man's hair was slicked back as usual. He had the same tired shadows under his eyes as the last time Sherlock had seen him, at the pool.

"Good evening," a smile slanted across Jim's features.

"You're late," Sherlock drawled.

"Sorry, Sir," Jim rolled his eyes. "Had a bit of trouble with the internet connection. Had to do some rerouting for safety's sake. You understand."

Sherlock grunted. He shifted in his chair slightly. Hyper-aware of Jim's gaze. It occurred to him, perhaps a bit belatedly, that they hadn't really had a lot of time to study each other's physicality. Especially not in such a state of undress.

He wasn't exactly disappointed. Jim's small stature didn't translate to video, but Sherlock remembered. The man was rather waifish all around. Thin arms. Accentuated collarbones. Light dusting of hair on the chest. Delicate wasn't exactly the right word.

But in that moment, Jim did look oddly breakable.

"Well, do I get the full show?" Jim raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock let the dressing gown slide off his shoulders. He knew how his own body looked. How his muscles moved underneath his skin. Most people found him to be decently attractive—even if he did have a rather odd face.

Striking was the nice word for it.

Jim flicked out his tongue and ran it along his lower lip. He stared at Sherlock unabashedly. Almost as if he were trying to consume him through the screen.

Sherlock paused for a moment, before he stood up and slid out of his pants. His erection bobbed slightly, freed from the confines of clothing. He almost felt self-conscious.

Then Jim still let out a low whistle.

"Mmm. Long and thick. Just the way daddy likes," Jim chuckled.

Sherlock sat again. The awkwardness quickly gave way to an accelerated heart rate, and skin that felt just a bit too warm.

Jim smiled and dipped down out of the screen's view. He came back up holding a dildo. Black, silicone by the looks of it.

"Not quite as big as yours," Jim bit his lip, "but I suppose it's the thought that counts. What shall I do with it?"

"Suck it."

Jim raised the dildo to his lips and parted them. He turned his head to the side as he slid the toy into his mouth, so Sherlock could get a better view.

The detective watched, arousal sparking through him in quick bursts as Jim took the toy in further and further. No gag reflex.

Jim let the drool run down his chin as he pushed the dildo in and out of his mouth, fucking his own throat with it.

Sherlock found it far too easy to imagine his own cock sliding into Jim's mouth. Imagine the wonderful, slick heat. Sherlock wrapped a hand around his cock without thinking about it. Jim groaned around the dildo, then withdrew it with a wet pop.

"Did I say you could stop?" Sherlock barked.

Jim startled slightly. Perhaps acting. Perhaps not. His eyes got a bit wider and he slid the toy back into his mouth.

"There's a good slut," Sherlock's voice dropped low. Into a register he rarely used unless he was trying to frighten someone. "Now I think that tie needs to be a bit tighter. Pull it until you can't breathe. Let go when I say you can."

Jim obeyed without protest. Seemingly without thought. He tugged down on his tie until it bit into his neck. He stopped breathing. Sherlock watched carefully. His chest didn't move. He sat there, perfectly still, except for the motion of his hand—still sliding the fake cock in and out of his mouth.

Sherlock counted to thirty. Watched Jim's cheeks flush. Watched him twitch just a little bit before he said, "let go."

Jim released the tie and took a big breath in through his nose. He swayed slightly just for a second.

"All right, get that thing out of your mouth so you can breathe," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Jim withdrew the toy and took a proper gasp of air. He met Sherlock's eyes and grinned easily.

"Could you angle the camera down a bit, Sir? I'd like to have a better view of your lovely cock… that is, if you don't mind."

The politeness of it was false. Simpering. If Sherlock were really there, in the room with him, he would have slapped him. As it was, he pushed John's laptop back a bit and angled it downwards, so that he could still see Moriarty, but the camera got a fuller view of his naked body.

Jim hummed in appreciation. "Oh yes… that's the stuff…"

"You sound like a desperate little tart," Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he stroked his cock slowly. "I know you've got lube. Finger yourself."

Jim reached down again for a tube of lubricant. He pushed his camera back as well, and slumped in his chair as he smeared lube over two fingers. He caught his lower lip on his teeth and snaked a hand down. He folded one leg and rested it on the edge of the chair, tilting his pelvis forward. Sherlock watched as Jim slipped a finger down.

Sherlock couldn't see the point of penetration very well. He just saw Jim's hand, down beneath his cock—which was not overly impressive, but pleasing in its proportionality.

He knew when Jim slipped a finger inside himself, because the smaller man closed his eyes and let out a sigh. It suddenly felt as if the air in Sherlock's bedroom had run out of oxygen.

"It feels so nice, Sir," Jim said in a breathy voice. Probably fake. But Sherlock didn't mind. It would be real soon enough. "I've been bad."

"Is that so?" Sherlock commented dryly.

"Yes… I touched myself earlier today, before I called. Just thinking about you… I came without permission."

"Then we'd best choke you again," Sherlock smiled. It only added to the heat inside him. Jim tugged at the tie again and held it. Not breathing. Still working a finger in and out of himself. Sherlock stroked himself slowly. Savoring the way he could see the panicked elation building just behind Jim's eyes.

This time when Sherlock said, let go, he instructed Jim to add another finger. Then, because he'd been a filthy little slut, and touched himself without calling, Sherlock decided that Jim didn't need any more preparation.

Jim shifted positions. He turned around in the chair and got on his knees. He grasped the dildo with one hand, and spread his arse cheeks apart with the other. Jim apparently kept himself shaved. Sherlock drank in the sight of his little pink arsehole, slick, clenching around the sudden absence of Jim's fingers.

Jim slid the dildo in slowly. Sherlock's cock throbbed in sympathy. He imagined what it would be like. Sinking into the heat of Jim's body…

The other man let out a small moan. And this one wasn't staged. No. Real. Soft. Slightly broken. Beautiful. Sherlock stored it, for later use.

Jim stopped with the toy was about halfway in. He panted slightly. He grasped the back of the chair with one hand and swiveled slightly, looking over his shoulder at Sherlock.

"Please, Sir," he whispered, "I need it."

Sherlock nodded. Jim began to slide the toy in and out, gasping and moaning, to articulate his pleasure. Some of the sounds were obviously for show. But Sherlock listened hard. For the accidental whines.

He marked the exact moment when Jim stopped trying to be pretty and let the pleasure take over. He started moving the dildo with a bit more purpose, grinding down against it, to get the angle just right.

"Turn around, I want to see your face," Sherlock ordered

Jim obeyed, flipping in the chair, still on his knees, working the dildo into himself. His face had flushed. His eyes closed. His mouth fell open.

It seemed, for perhaps a few seconds, that Jim's mask slipped away. He wasn't the cunning, psychotic super villain that threatened Sherlock with a team of snipers. No. He became something decidedly more animalistic.

And Sherlock tumbled after him.

He timed the motions of his own hand with each thrust of the toy. Moriarty shoved the silicone cock into himself with a bit more vigor.

"Yes, uh… Sherlock," Moriarty whined.

It tugged at something deep in Sherlock's chest. An intense lurch of desire shot through him. He felt his own orgasm building. The tension welling up. He felt almost dizzy.

"Please, please…" Jim begged almost incoherently. "May I touch myself?"

"Yes," Sherlock responded, without even thinking about the game. Because more than anything, he wanted to see Jim come.

The smaller man wrapped a hand around his own cock and began thrusting into it feverishly. His skin shone with sweat. Each breath came out as a little sob. It sparked strange electric currents in Sherlock's bloodstream.

"Can I come, Sir? Oh fuck… please."

"Yes. Right now."

Jim let out a final moan, and he shuddered. The first shot of his ejaculate flew through the air—probably landing somewhere on the desk. The rest dribbled, down over his hand. Jim continued to stroke himself slowly, his face slack, completely checked out.

Sherlock applied just a little bit more pressure. Stared at Jim's naked body, spread out before him. Listened to Jim's heavy breathing.

Then he got there too.

The orgasm crashed over him. He let out an accidental groan, as the tension released. He felt it all the way to his toes and fingertips. Each throb of pleasure felt like almost too much to handle. But then it dulled, slowed, tapered off.

The room felt suddenly cold. The distance asserted itself. Left them sitting there, on opposite sides of a computer screen.

Jim pulled the dildo out with a slick sound, wincing slightly. He settled back down into a normal sitting position. He reached for something on the desk, and came back with a cigarette.

"Care to join me?" He grinned as he flicked a Zippo and inhaled deeply. He exhaled a small cloud on a sigh.

Sherlock opened a drawer in his desk, the one with a false bottom, and pulled out his boredom cigarettes. He lit one. Inhaled. It felt like dropping a weight he hadn't even been aware of holding.

The silence wasn't exactly companionable, but it wasn't awkward either. A mutual indulgence of vices. That's all any of it was.

It would be stupid to think otherwise.


End file.
